I hate that feeling I felt in the year coming up to university. The stress I put upon myself because I hated what I was doing. But I didn’t know what I wanted to do.

The truth is, I still don’t know what I want to do. But I like the fact that I’m exploring. When I think about all the possibilities out there, everything that I can create or contribute to this world, it makes me hungry for success. Not so much monetary success, but a sense of fulfillment.

Transitioning from a business field to a creative one can be confusing. Especially when your surroundings change. I’ve watched many of my close friends whom I studied with for years continue on the path we were headed down together, while I strayed in a completely different direction.

Sometimes I’m confused as to why I haven’t had to add numbers or solve mathematical formulas, because I’ve always understood school to be math and science and charts and graphs. And sometimes I wonder if choosing to pursue a creative career is going to lead me down a path of unemployment and artsy misery.

I have always been exposed to careers in business. From my family, who all work in the commerce sectors, to the many friends around me who are beginning to explore careers in finance, accounting, management and marketing. Never, until recently, have my eyes been opened up to the hundreds of other possibilities that lie in the arts. I’m eager to explore career possibilities in what I always used to regard as hobbies; writing, music, painting, design. My soul yearns for creativity and I never want to stop making and building and cultivating.

I don’t have any regrets in my decision to study communications. I admire the fact that it’s a very open creative field that allows me to explore multiple options and diverse artistic disciplines. But most of all, it has taught me that, well, school doesn’t always have to suck. I won’t always feel like ripping my eyes out from 9-4 monday through friday. I get to make things. Films, sounds, performances. Maybe I will make money making things one day. Who knows.

Time never stops moving forward but sometimes we do and it feels like the whole world is leaving without us. We breathe easy and stay in place because our feet won’t lift from the ground. Stuck like gum. But we wish we could run, so fast, just to catch up.

We’re so caught up in this idea that we have to move at the same pace as everyone else. We can’t seem to sit down when everyone around us is standing up.

The thing with pain is, you forget how much it hurts once it’s over. I find myself telling everyone it really wasn’t all that bad. Because physical pain is momentary. And emotional pain is not something we want to remind ourselves of. Because you don’t remember the physical pain like you remember the emotional pain. Waking up becomes hard not because your body aches but because your heart does.

They said six weeks was all it would take. But I’m hitting nine and I still don’t fully feel myself. The doctors never take into account the healing of the mind.

Healing takes time. So much time. A lot of waiting. So much so, it feels unnecessary at a certain point. The end goal becomes blurred because you don’t really know what you’re waiting for. To feel better, I guess. But you feel so weak and you tell yourself, I never want to feel this way again. I don’t think you ever fully accept it. But at a certain point, you find a way to come to terms with it.

Out of pain comes strength, and if there’s one thing that healing has taught me, it’s bravery. Overcoming humiliation and fear and treating the sadness as a building block. Because the universe is not against you, but sometimes it makes mistakes. And sometimes we get hurt. If we can’t make art and love out of pain and sadness, take the good out of the bad, how can we overcome the hardships that are thrown at us?

There’s something about being in the car with her. The way she can cheer me up after a hospital appointment, stop for McDonalds and get me chicken nuggets. It seems like her Toyota has fostered so many of our memories together.

As I grow older, I lose out on many of the moments we’ve shared.

I miss long drives with her, monday night art classes, road trips to the states and spending two hours at target in Plattsburgh at nine in the morning.

I think of all the fun we’ve had, the traditions we’ve started outside of the car. I like to think we have our own “spot” in Brooklyn, Bagelsmith on Bedford. We always get the same bagels, me, a cinnamon raisin bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, her, a pumpernickel bagel with jalapeño cheddar cream cheese. We sit in the same seats, take the same picture. I miss going to New York with her.

Somehow, I’m always taken back to the car. When she used to pick me up after a party, and I was giddy with excitement, eager to tell her about all my adventures. Or the morning after a party, getting groceries, sitting in the car telling her all the crazy things my friends and I had done. When, at nineteen, I miss my train and she comes to pick me up at the bus stop.

I think we talk on the phone at least once a day. She’s always the first one I call when I make a new friend, or five, when I do well on a paper, when I find something cool or funny. I have a saved folder on my phone filled with memes and viral videos to show her when I get home. Everything I experience, I want to share with her.

I am my father in many ways. But in so many more, I wish I was my mother. She excels in everything she does. Makes it all look effortless. She’s artistic, creative, skilled, dexterous. Her spider-killing abilities are impeccable, too.

I want to show everyone how special my mother is. I want people to see her the way I see her; how I trust her more than anyone in the world, and have never doubted my love for her or her love for me. But I feel like no one could understand just how special she is because she is not their mother. She, or anyone, wouldn’t do half the things she does for me for anyone else.

Whenever I’m sitting in someone else’s car, I will never get the same feeling as if I were in hers. I’ll wish I was back beside her, listening to the Shrek soundtrack, or switching the cd immediately when my band’s music comes on. I’ll wish I was driving down to Albany and stopping for breakfast. Making jokes while waiting in line at the border. Waiting for her outside the bathroom. Often, because she always drinks so many Diet Cokes. Only to get back in the car. And eventually drive home. Together. Always.

I’ve tried my best to recollect the year. The positive and the slightly less. Twenty sixteen held a whirlwind of emotions, feelings, memories. So many highs, weighed down by some lows. I can’t lie, it wasn’t always easy. But I’m really struggling to say it was a bad year. Because while the bad times were bad, the good times were really good.

Twenty sixteen was a year of change.

I released my art into the world. It was scary and exciting and also much needed.

I lost my way, I cried over the wrong people and I got hurt. I experienced instability. People came and people went. But I also met the ones that I think will stay.

I started a new chapter. New friends, new projects, new experiences. But I also struggled to move away from the old. New emerged out of the old and I felt torn between future, present and past. Until I found home in two places, and realized that I didn’t have to let go of the old to grab on to the new. I have two hands to keep me balanced.

I touched love and it didn’t shy away. I fell in and out over and over again. I think I will always be in love.

I took long drives and fell in love with the sunset. We danced amongst the warm air with The Lumineers and The Paper Kites as our soundtracks. The sadness always seemed to fade away amongst good company. Summer was a transitional period that left me confused and lost. But come Fall, I found my way.

Twenty sixteen was a year of fun. 3am nights on the back patio after a night of friends and fun. Night busses and falling asleep in the back of the uber. Iconic parties and reckless actions. Thursdays at Reggies, Saturdays wherever the crew was hanging. Concerts. Festivals.

I resemble my father in the way that I feel even the smallest of things. The way he listens to a song on repeat and falls in love with every word. The way he takes everything to heart.

The way we feel too much. Every emotion is heightened. When we’re happy, we’re really happy. But the same goes for when we’re sad, or frustrated.

I see my father in the way that I thrive around good company. The parties we love to host, the friends we love to see. The way we admire friendships. The way we connect with others and fall in love with them instantly.

I see my father in the way that I am stubborn. We both have strong, creative visions and resist in changing our ways. I like my stubbornness. The fact that I won’t give up on something. We fight until we can’t anymore.

We dislike the idea of change. When it’s natural, we give in unknowingly. But if we had the choice, we’d keep it all the same.

I’m envious of how quickly he can fall asleep. But joyful when I see his eyes closed, knowing he is peacefully resting after a long day. He’s always worked so hard, and sometimes he needs a little break.

I love the way he loves. The way he asks “penny for your thoughts?” and even if I don’t want to tell him, I know I can.

The way he shines. The biggest compliment I ever received was being told I had a smile that lit up the room, just like my dad. His personality stands out above the rest.

I love his persistence. How he always orders the chicken, in the hopes that one day he won’t find it dry. His friendliness. How he always greets strangers on the streets, and strikes up conversations with those around him.

Most of all, I admire the community he has created around him. His friends, whom all love him dearly. His family, his band, his co-workers. The way he brings people together.

I have a dream. The Party House. I buy a house and live with a large group of friends. Have people over all the time. Celebrations every day. I get it from my dad. I see the way he is around his friends. The fun they have, the happiness that is passed around. I want that. Every day. I want to experience life through rose-colored glasses. Like my father.

There’s something about the way the sun sets. The pink sky makes everything seem small. I take comfort in knowing that even when it rains, the sun will always come back. Even the worst of days seem to fade when the sun goes down. I just don’t understand how something can be so perfect. But I don’t think it needs an explanation. The sky mesmerizes, even if just for a few moments.

I could’ve used a sunset today. Sometimes you just have those days, when nothing seems quite right. It’s almost like medicine; a sunset can cure the sadness away. Even thinking about it helps. I’m taken back to warmer days.

I spent my summer searching for the sun. Long drives in good company, travelling to the edge of the island to see the cotton candy sky. We could talk, laugh, and admire the ethereal qualities of the sunset. Everything was easy. Even when it wasn’t, it still felt light when you looked up and watched the sun go to sleep.

The summer sunset hits at the perfect time. Around 8pm, we’d be sitting by the water, staring into the distance. The car ride there was often filled with dismal conversation. We were sad. But the car ride home was always silent. I think it’s because we couldn’t be sad after seeing something so exquisite. When the world has so much beauty to offer, it almost seems like a crime to focus on the ugliness.

This summer has been a whirlwind, a series of crazy, amazing days and nights, and there’s still so much left. I am sitting here, in awe, thinking about all the memories I have made. This playlist is a true testament to the best summer yet, a list of nostalgic, energetic and relaxed songs that fit the mood of a bright and fun season.

Summer is just beginning, and it has already proven its title as my favourite time of the year. This playlist has been the background to some great june nights, not to mention lovely afternoons in the sun.

I went for lunch with some friends at Santropol, and although it wasn’t the warmest spring day, it was the perfect day for this new pink jacket. Santropol, by the way, is another great Montreal restaurant, they have amazing sandwiches and a cute backyard patio. Not to mention the area, right in the heart of the Plateau by Mount Royal park, it varies from both quiet and happening from one street to the other.